


The Way to a Man's Heart (is through his dog)

by Lecavayay



Series: Dog Park Magic [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (so fluffy), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dogs, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, So Many Dogs, happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hidden in the shadows of NYU, there is a dog park where people sometimes meet their soulmates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryvanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/gifts).



> Dear cherryvanilla - as you can see, I pretty much put everyone you asked for in here and went way over the word limit because I just couldn't resist. I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved writing it. Happy Holidays (and a very merry new year)!!
> 
> A thousand thanks to believeinafreelove on tumblr for reading this piece by piece and letting me pester her with far too many questions.
> 
> I'd also like to note that **no dogs were harmed in the writing of this fic** , they are all wonderful actors and were paid handsomely in treats.

Pittsburgh isn’t anything to look at today. It’s barely raining enough to wet the sidewalks but the clouds have turned everything the same color grey. Sidney watches the mist try to stick to the window of the doctor’s office in between reading the posters on the wall. There’s one at eye level that reads ‘Six Steps to a Healthy Prostate’. It’s good information. Nothing he didn’t already know.

He startles when Dr. Harner enters the room, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “You did quite a number on that shoulder, Sid,” he leads, settling into the little black rolling chair that all doctors sit in. “I think the best thing to do, based on the scans, would be to get you under the knife.”  

Four to six months, then.

It’s about as bad as it could be. “Is there any way I could avoid the surgery?” Sid asks.

“I’d highly recommend getting it taken care of now so it’s not a problem in the future,” he says. “It’s early in the season, still. With good rehab, you could be back in March. This isn’t a guaranteed season killer.”

Sid thinks missing eighty-percent of their games pretty much constitutes as a season killer, but he’s not one to argue with doctors. “How soon can you get me in?”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got a pretty open schedule.”

 

The surgery goes as expected and the Penguins go on a road trip and Sidney stays on the couch. His coffee table is home to an array of pill bottles he’s slowly weening himself off of and a little pile of Reece’s peanut butter cup wrappers. He shifts around to try and find relief from the strap of the sling that’s absolutely _digging_ into his neck to no avail. The History Channel’s showing the same documentary he saw three days ago and he’s agitated about it.

He unwraps another peanut butter cup and pops it in his mouth, balls up the tin foil and tosses it onto the pile on the table.

It’ll get better, he tells himself. Eventually he’ll be able to get back in the gym and strengthen his stupid, worthless shoulder back up. He’ll be able to get back on the ice and fire pucks into the net without gritting against the grinding pain of the motion. It’ll get better.

But right now he wants to pull his hair out one strand at a time.

His phone chimes and he pulls it from between the couch cushions, expecting another text from his mom or Taylor, but it chimes again. It’s actually _ringing_.

“Hello?” And wow, his voice is rough.

“Hey Sid, it’s John.”

There are at least a thousand John’s and Jonathan’s-that-go-by-Jon in the league. “John?”

“Tavares. Sorry, I should have said that.”

Sid pulls his phone away from his ear and squints at the number. “Why don’t I have you in my phone?”

“Changed numbers.”

That makes sense. “That makes sense, uh, what’s up?”

“How are you doing?”

Sid expects the question from his family and his teammates and the coaches and doctors and trainers but…John isn’t any of those things. “I’m about to climb my walls, to be honest.”

He hears John laugh a little. “Yeah, what is it, day five or so?”

“Six.”

“I wish I could say it gets better.”

Sid supposes John would know, what with his knee a couple seasons ago. It doesn’t make him feel any better to hear first-hand that the frustration sticks around. “If you didn’t call to talk me off the ledge, what do you want?”

“I’d like to offer you a change in scenery. A city that doesn’t know your face, for as long as you need.”

“Everyone knows my face.”

“It’s a hell of a lot easier to be anonymous in New York than Pittsburgh.”

Sidney thinks about slipping into the flow of rush hour foot traffic in Times Square with a baseball hat on and big sunglasses, a boring grey hoodie that wouldn’t draw attention. “What do you mean _offering_.”

“I’ve got a guest room with your name on it. If you want it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you stay on your couch for four to six months, you’re going to go insane. And New York’s great.”

“I’ve been there before.”

“As a hockey player. But it’s different when you can just be a person.”

“That seems pretty philosophical.”

“Comes with old age.”

Sid rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you just move in with your boyfriend? I’m not about to impose on your love nest.”

“ _He_ moved in with _me_ ,” John corrects. “And I’m telling PK you called my condo a love nest.”

The documentary he’s been ignoring cuts to a loud commercial about a blender and he struggles to reach the remote to mute it, knocking over his pile of wrappers and a bottle of pills. “Fuck it,” he snaps. “I’ll come. I’ll book a flight, you’re right. I can’t stay here.”

“We’ve got an off day on Thursday.”

“I’ll text you the details.”

When they hang up, Sid rolls himself off the couch and heads to his bedroom to start packing.

 

The city comes into view just over an hour into the flight, sprawling skyscrapers reaching up like fingers or jagged teeth, clawing and biting at the sky. There’s a thin layer of fog that hasn’t burned off yet, still twisting through the spaces between buildings. The sidewalks are colored with bright raincoats and umbrellas, plastic boots that splash through puddles without a care. Yellow taxis spray waves of water onto passersby who try and duck away in time. The Empire State building blinks its hello.

The landing is smooth, save for the initial bounce, and Sidney scrambles to get up out of his seat and into the aisle before anyone else. He attempts to text one-handed while he rushes down the jetway, shrugging his backpack up onto his good shoulder. He flips his hoodie up and immediately heads for baggage claim.

John and a person he assumes is PK are waiting near the carousel where Sid’s bag will come out. It’s comforting to see John in a similar ensemble to himself – baseball hat pulled low over his eyes and a non-descript sweatshirt.

“Hey Sid,” John says, reaching to pull him into a gentle hug. “How was the flight?”

“Not bad considering all the clouds.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The baggage carousel comes to life, a series of buzzers and a flashing red light covering up the awkward silence that falls between them.

“Oh, this is PK,” John offers after an unsubtle elbow to the side. “My boyfriend.”

PK’s face lights up. “I’m just going to get my fanboy moment out of the way now and say it’s such an honor to meet you.”

“It’s always nice to meet a fan.” Sid shakes his hand and is impressed by the firm grip.

John sighs and it sounds long-suffering. “He doesn’t moon over my hockey like this anymore. It’ll wear off.”

Sid doesn’t like change and he certainly isn’t the type of person who takes a left when he had fully planned on taking a right all along. The panic he’d pushed down when he boarded the plane this morning starts to rise into his chest again. But he’s committed now, to being away from Pittsburgh and the lonely solitude of his house, and he’s _definitely_ the type of person who doesn’t back down from a challenge.

“What’s your bag look like?” John asks. “We can grab it for you.”

“Uh, it’s just black. Like a medium-sized black duffel.”

“Well that should be easy to find,” PK jokes.

“It’s, uh, it’s got a penguin-shaped tag on it,” Sid confesses.

“Just couldn’t help yourself, eh?”

“It’s cute,” he whines.

“I’ll find it, just stay here.” PK weaves easily between a family and a woman in a red coat to get to the carousel.

Sidney thinks he and John probably look pretty shady just standing around with their faces half-hidden. He debates taking his hood down since absolutely no one has even glanced twice at them. New York might _actually_ be as anonymous as John said it was.

“Jake! _JAKE_! JAKE _NO_!”

 Their attentions, along with half of the concourse, are drawn to a man with a large green travel backpack being pulled towards the exit by a fit-looking blond dog, tongue lolling out of the side of its mouth. The owner trips on something and the audience collectively gasps as he struggles to right himself before hitting the ground. The dog continues to try and get outside as fast as possible.

 

Jake makes a sudden turn to the left and nearly pulls his arm off. “Come on, this way, come on. You’re making me look like a fucking idiot.”

Jake makes a running leap at his face and slobbers all over his shirt in the process, balancing on his back legs to get in as many licks as he can.

“I know, I know, I love you too. But let’s calm down until we get home, okay?” he says, rubbing behind Jake’s pointed ears. “I bet Zucc’s waiting for us. You wanna meet Zucc? _You wanna meet Zucc_?” His voice gets higher pitched the longer he talks and then they’re both running towards the exit.

“Where is he, boy? Huh? Can you sniff him out?”

Jake sniffs the nearest trash can as a beat-up compact car rolls to a stop in front of them.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” the driver shouts, pointing at Jake, who’s now _peeing_ on the trash can.

“Shit. Come on, boy! Zucc’s here!”

Zucc gets out of his car to pop the trunk with a nasty glare. “You go to Russia for two weeks and come home with a dog? Who _does that_? What the hell, Derek?”

“I couldn’t say no. Look at his face!” He wedges his backpack between the other junk stashed in the trunk. “He’s got all his shots and stuff.”

“Chris is going to be pissed.”

Derek lets Jake into the backseat and unclips his leash. “Chris is going to love him.”

 

Their shitty three bedroom-one bathroom apartment sits above an all-hours diner and a laundromat. The rent really isn’t cheap enough for the amount of leaky windows and fifty-year-old appliances they deal with but proximity is everything. NYU isn’t but a subway stop and a two block walk away, which was a nice selling point back when Derek thought he was going to get his Master’s degree.

“Does he have class or am I about to ambush him and feel the full wrath?” Derek asks as Zucc swings into a parking spot on the street.

“You mean like you ambushed me?”

Jake sticks his head between them, clearly excited by the engine turning off.

“Yeah he has class. You’re safe.”

Derek lets Jake out of the car and waits for him to sniff around at the skinny little tree on the curb and a particularly thrilling spot on the sidewalk.

“You better pick that up,” Zucc says. “I’m not about to be fined for littering. Or whatever the fuck they’d call it.”

Jake left a frankly huge pile of shit on that thrilling spot on the sidewalk. He looks pretty pleased with himself.

“Dude, come _on_.”

 

There’s a dumpster around the back of the diner and Derek tosses the little bag that’s specifically made for picking up dog poop into it. Jake barks as the backdoor opens and a familiar kid with his own bag of trash steps out.

“Oh, hey Derek!” Nate greets, easily crouching down to pet Jake. “I forgot Zucc said you were getting back today. How was it?”

“It was _amazing_. I met a ton of really cool people, probably ate and drank too much. And the places you see pictures of? So much better in person. I think I went to the Kremlin every day just to look at it.”

“That’s awesome, man.” Jake is completely hamming it up for Nate, flopping over to give him better access to rub his belly. “Who’s this?”

 “Jake. I actually brought him home with me.”

“Seriously? They let you do that?”

“It was a whole process but, yeah. We made it through customs so he’s mine forever.”

“I bet Duke would love to meet him sometime.” He stands and brushes the gravel off his knees. “There’s a dog park around here, we should hit it up sometime.”

“Yeah, for sure. Something to tire him out.”

“Text me when you wanna go,” he says, tossing his trash in the dumpster.

“Sounds good.” 

Nate kicks the doorstop on his way back to the kitchen. “I just threw a batch of biscuits in the oven, you hungry?”

He probably _could_ eat but he’s also really starting to feel the nearly-eleven hour flight settle in. “Nah, I think I’m going to go pass out in a jetlag-fueled haze for a while.”

Jake’s right ear flicks off to the side and he lolls his tongue out to start panting. Derek assumes that means he’s ready for a nap as well.

 

It’s still dark out when his phone goes off with his loudly obnoxious alarm. He can feel Jake breathing heavily next to him and then licking his chops directly in his ear. And, shit. He didn’t go get dog food yesterday. Yesterday? He checks the date on his phone. Yeah, good. He only slept for fifteen hours.

Jake’s collar jingles when he follows Derek out to the kitchen, nails tapping on the scuffed wood floors. “You like lunch meat? Baby tomatoes? Um, milk? There’s some Bran Flakes in the cabinet probably.”

He whines a little and wags his tail.

“Cereal for me, turkey for you. How about that?”

“Who the fuck are you talking to at four-thirty in the morning?”

Jake rushes over to yip happily at Chris, who is probably just trying to find the bathroom still half-asleep and didn’t ask for any of this.

“That’s Jake,” Derek says, closing the fridge. “He lives here now.”

“That’s a dog.”

“I brought him home with me.”

Chris rubs his eyes and lets Jake lick his other hand. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He was honestly expecting a little more resistance.

“Yeah. S’fine. Are you going to the gym?”

“Work calls.” Jake huffs at the package of turkey in Derek’s hand and he focuses on getting the plastic seal off before setting it on the floor for him to scarf down. He’ll get food on his way home.

 

The gym is still dark when he gets there just after five-thirty, which is unusual since Dan should’ve been there at five. The neon sign in the front window is on, though, and the door opens freely.

“Hello? Dan, you here?”

“Shhh,” comes a hiss from the direction of the check-in counter.

Derek flips the row of light switches by the door and illuminates the slumped over figure at the desk. The guy’s blond, so he assumes it’s Dan. “Are you hungover?”

“Possibly.”

“Were you ever going to turn the lights on?”

“I told Jonny to do it when he got here.”

Jonny’s always the first one at the gym. He works some corporate job downtown but insists on taking the train twenty minutes uptown to come to Dan’s gym. Even though there’s a perfectly adequate one in his office. Twenty minutes is like an hour in New York time. It’s stupid.

“Go home. I can handle the morning rush.”

“Can’t.”

Derek drops his gym bag behind the desk. “Why not?”

“Jon’s got my keys.”

“Then how did you get in here?”

“There’s a spare around back.”

That’s in the realm of being fairly unsafe but Dan pretty much knows everyone on the block by now so maybe he just doesn’t care.

“How was Russia?” Dan asks his folded arms.

“Really great. Wish I was still there so I didn’t have to smell you, _jesus_. Did you just pour the bottle of vodka all over yourself and hope it seeped in through your skin?”

“Tequila.” Dan makes a little gagging noise. “Fuck, don’t repeat that. I might hurl.”

“What was the occasion?”

“The Jets lost to the Hawks.”

“You know it’s only like, game seven or eight, right?”

“But we still haven’t _won_ any.”

Derek pats him gently on the back. “There, there. It’ll be okay.”

The unmistakable creak of the front door alerts them to Jonny’s arrival. Derek checks the clock over the mirrors in the back – 5:47. “You’re late.”

 

Jonny doesn’t say anything, he just throws Dan’s keys on the desk and heads for the row of bikes. There’s a persistent thud at the back of his skull and his skin feels like a dry husk stretched too thin. The last place he wants to be is the gym, but if he doesn’t work up a sweat he’s going to fall asleep at his desk.

“We should write a letter to the NHL asking them to refrain from scheduling any future Chicago/Winnipeg games on weekdays,” Dan says.

He glares from across the gym, purposefully putting his headphones in his ears. He doesn’t want to talk about last night. He wants to not be hungover. And to potentially never listen to Dan ever again. _Just one more, you’ll be fine! Who even does work on Fridays? No one. Shots all around!_

He gives Dan the finger and gets to work.

 

Despite his best efforts, Jonny falls asleep at his desk around three-thirty that afternoon and startles awake to the buzz of his phone.

“Mmpf.” He wipes at the side of his mouth and checks the message. _Need you to take Betsey next week, is that okay?_

He rubs the back of his neck and yawns as he runs through his schedule for the next seven days, as if there would really be a reason he wouldn’t take Betsey. She went with Lindsey when they broke up, which was fair, but he’d made it clear that he would watch her any time, no questions asked. They were still co-parents, or whatever.

_Of course. Not a problem._

_My flights on Sun, could I drop her Sat night?_

_Yeah_

_Thx._

A man with a rather impressive mustache pokes his head into his office and Jonny scrambles to stash his phone. “Have a good weekend, Toews.”

“You too, boss.”

He listens for the _ding_ of the elevator before closing out of his half-finished expense report and pulling up his fantasy hockey league. He’s currently in second place, which is unacceptable. He’s got a notification about one of his players: _Anthony Duclair will be in the lineup tonight against New Jersey._

If Alain Vigneault believes in him, so will he.

One of his coworkers waltzes into his office then, scrolling through his phone. “Dude, did you seriously just play a rookie when you have Brassard on your team?”

“Go away, Sharpy.”

He flops into the empty chair in front of Jonny’s desk. “He’s only played four games his entire life and you’re picking him over the guy who put you in first place not one week ago.”

“You’re just trying to get me to change my mind,” he says, glaring. He knows how Sharpy works.

“What do I care? I’ve got Lundqvist.” He smiles, wiggling his phone in Jonny’s view.

“You’re not winning this year. I’m not going to let you manipulate me with your mind powers.”

“Oh, Tow-ez. Such little faith in my mind powers.”

Jonny viciously exits out of the website he was using. “Are you going to sit in here for the rest of the day?”

“No. I just wanted to bother you before I left.”

“Oh, thanks for that.”

“Touchy today, Jonny.”

“Not enough sleep,” he grumbles.

“Aw, too much partying with the boyfriend?”

“Not the boyfriend.”

“Brofriend.”

“ _Friend_ friend. Go back to your cave with your perfect wife and adorable children.”

“Well when you say it like that,” he says, standing. “You get that report done?”

“It’ll be done before I leave.”

“Q needs that first thing Monday,” Sharpy says like a warning.

As if Jonny doesn’t know that. “And he’ll have it,” he snaps.

“Easy there, Captain Serious.”

“A part of me really wants to throw you out of this window right now.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going. Have a good weekend.”

Jonny checks over his fantasy lineup one last time before pulling his report back up and getting to work.

 

Lindsey texts that they’re downstairs ten minutes early Saturday night, which is no surprise.

Jonny bounces up from the couch and turns the TV on mute – the Hawks are playing the Blues. He knows it’s a big game but he’s only been half-watching, counting down the minutes until nine when Lindsey and Betsey were set to arrive.

He buzzes them up and she knocks politely before coming in, Betsey’s overnight bag slung over her shoulder. “Hey Jon,” she says, smiling.

He’s always been taken by her smile and six months of being single has done nothing to diminish that. He gives her a hug and takes the heavy bag so she can unclip Betsey’s leash.

The little yorkie bounces around their feet, barking for attention. Jonny kneels down and lets her hop into his lap. “Aw, she missed me.”

Lindsey laughs and starts pulling things out of the bag. “I portioned out her food for you, so she just gets one bag, twice a day. There’s also treats and her favorite blanket in there, some toys – she really likes the little bear – and her vet’s phone number if something happens.”

Betsey’s giving his chin a smattering of tiny licks. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I know.”

“Where’re you off to?” he asks.

“Miami. We’ve got a potential client who wants to see some of my marketing drafts in person.”

Jonny’s still so fucking proud of her. “You’ll land ‘em.”

“Always do,” she says with the confidence he fell in love with. “You two be good, now.”

“Always are.”

“Debatable. Call me if you need anything.”

Betsey rushes for the couch once the door clicks shut, her little nails clipping along the flooring, and Jonny goes to grab a beer from the fridge before joining her. He notices the checklist sitting next to the bag on the counter, Lindsey’s neat handwriting outlining everything he needs to do while she’s away. He’ll compare it to his own checklist in the morning, just to make sure he didn’t forget anything.  

Chicago has pulled ahead when he settles back into the game. “Go Hawks, eh, girl?”

She curls up against his leg and he wonders if Lindsey would let him buy her a tiny Hawks jersey to wear on game days.


	2. Two

Mornings are not Max’s favorite time of day, not by a longshot, and Monday mornings might just be the worst of them all. He knows when his alarm goes off that he has to get up and finish his reading response before getting ready for class. But he also knows that he has a second alarm set that allows him to go back to sleep for another thirty minutes if he decides to forgo a shower.

He’s not that gross, probably. He deserves the extra half hour.

Orion has another idea, trotting into the room with a purpose. Max takes the bringsel from his mouth. “Fine.”

He rolls to sitting and pulls his kit out of the bedside table. He’s sure he’s low, Orion’s very rarely wrong, but he checks his blood sugar anyway. “If only you could bring me some juice too,” he says, scratching behind his ears. The meter, as expected, announces he’s low. “Good boy. Let’s get you a treat.”

Orion stays close by until he pops a straw in a juice box and drains the whole thing. He accepts half a Milk Bone in payment, tail wagging.

Max blinks at the green numbers of his microwave clock for a while, watches a couple minutes tick by. Maybe he’ll just skip American Lit today. It’s not like he hasn’t already read and discussed The Great Gatsby at length in high school. Plus, Professor Subban doesn’t take attendance – bless him. He could work on his big paper. Or actually do his stats homework for once.

Or go back to bed.

His phone vibrates once he’s fully resettled under the covers and he reaches out for it blindly. _Dog park?_

He groans. Fuck Nate. _really? a monday morning?_  

_As if you aren’t excited to see Hot-Guy an extra day this week._

That is a fair point.

_Plus, there’s a new addition to our play dates._

_You got another puppy?!?!?_ He’s already up and heading for the bathroom to brush his teeth.

_Nah, a guy I know brought a dog home from Russia._

_wtf is that a thing?_

_Apparently. I’ll see you in 20._

_make it 30 and its a deal_

_Fine._

Almost forty-five minutes later, Max and Orion make it to the dog park that sits in the shadows of NYU. It’s not as packed as it would be around lunch time or after people got off of work so it’s easy to spot Nate and his golden retriever puppy, Duke, already playing tug-o-war.

“Surprisingly, you’re not the latest,” Nate says, once they’re in earshot.

Max mentally fist-pumps and lets Orion off his leash. “Go on, bud,” he says, pulling his favorite green duck out of his backpack and throwing it. Orion catches it midair and trots around with Duke in tow.

“So how’ve you been, man?” Nate asks. “I feel like it’s been a while.”

 “Rough part of the semester. I should’ve majored in something with less papers to write.”

“Whatever, you love that shit.”

They settle on a bench, one in clear view of the running trail that circles the park, and watch Duke take momentary interest in a little French bulldog before romping off to slobber on Orion some more.

“Diner doing well?”

“Dutchy almost burned the whole place down last night but otherwise, it’s doing okay. Can’t complain.” Nate picks up a stick and starts breaking it into little pieces that pile at his feet.

“What’s he been up to? I miss his dog.”

Nate shrugs. “Busy, I guess. Hey, look.”

Max follows the incline of Nate’s head and catches sight of Hot-Guy, right on schedule. He’s wearing a tight grey tank today, a little ring of sweat darkening the collar, and black shorts that curve right around his ass as he runs past. He sighs, content.

“You know you could go up and talk to him, right?”

“That’d be fucking weird.”

“Only because you’re sitting weirdly in a dog park just staring.”

“What would I say? ‘Hi, sorry I’ve been watching you run for an awkwardly long amount of time but you’re absolutely gorgeous and I want to bang you immediately’.”

“I mean, that’s not how I’d go about it, but it could work.”

He punches Nate in the shoulder. “I’m not talking to him.”

“Maybe _I’ll_ talk to him.”

“He’s so not your type,” he says, pulling the duck from Orion’s teeth and throwing it again.

“Yeah, but I have _eyes_.”

“Maybe he’s already dating someone. Maybe he’s not even gay!”

“Which you won’t know unless you _talk to him._ ”

He can still see Hot-Guy, jogging in place now as he waits for the crosswalk at the light. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”

 “Oh, hey, Derek’s here,” he says, getting up to wave at the guy in the plaid shirt, struggling with a skinny mutt who looks ready to tear through the park.

Max gets up to join them at the gate, to introduce himself and Orion who’s brought the green duck back, but he only makes it halfway there before Derek’s dog pulls him past Nate in pursuit of something that’s sparked his interest.

“Shit, Jake! Jake, _no_!”

 

It’s no use. Jake is single-mindedly racing toward a little white dog with black spots and pointed ears. Derek sucks in a few deep breaths while they touch noses and sniff each other’s tails but the reprieve doesn’t last long. The little dog darts off and Jake is hot to follow. Derek realizes he probably should have taken his leash off when he was standing still, could probably just let go of it now and hope it doesn’t snag on anything but then the little dog banks to the left and it’s all over.

The dogs circle a guy with dark hair who’s scrolling through something on his phone and Derek quickly finds himself face-to-face with him, Jake’s leash wrapped tightly around both of their legs. “Shit, I’m so sorry. He’s such a menace.”

The guy looks a little off balance and Derek grabs onto the front of his shirt to hopefully help keep them upright.

“It’s, uh, it’s fine.” And okay, his voice is delightful. “At least they didn’t drag us into a lake or something.”

“Did you just make a 101 Dalmatians reference?”

“Maybe.”

That startles a laugh out of him, even as Jake whines in his failed attempts to continue chasing the little dog.

“Guess they like each other,” the guy says.

“Huh?”

“Our dogs.”

“Oh! She’s yours?”

“Franny.”

“Jake.” He leans down awkwardly in an attempt to unclip his leash and fails, wobbling a little. The guy he’s tied to steadies him and he definitely notices how big his hands are around his arms. The second attempt is a success and Jake clambers off to continue playing with Franny. “And I’m Derek.”

“Ryan.”

They look at each other for a length of time that’s probably not considered platonic before Derek breaks the building tension. “Okay, let’s get this undone.” For the record, Ryan has amazing eyes.

The leash untangles easily now that there isn’t an excited dog at one end. Derek immediately feels the chill where they had been pressed up against each other. It’s not even that cold outside today. His body is clearly freaking out.

“Sorry about that. Again,” he says.

Ryan’s smile is a little crooked and that just endears Derek to him even more. This has got to stop.

“Well that was hilarious,” Nate says, still red in the face, probably from laughing so hard.

“Ignore him,” Derek snaps, scanning the park for his dog. And shit, he’s got Franny pinned to the grass with his mouth around her neck. “Jake! No!”

“Hey, whoa,” Ryan says. “It’s fine. They’re just playing.”

And he’s right – Jake barks and wags his tail until Franny runs off again. He breathes with relief.

“First time dog owner?”

“Yeah, I uh…yeah.”

Ryan claps him on the shoulder. “It gets easier.”

“He ate my roommate’s pillows. All of them,” he says, miserably.

 Nate bursts into laughter again and Derek notices his friend with the yellow lab approaching quickly.

“Shit, shit, hide me,” he says, crouching behind Nate.

“What? Why?”

“That’s my fucking professor over there.” He points to a bench across the park. “I skipped his class this morning.”

“Holy shit, is that Sidney Crosby?”

“What?” Both Derek and Ryan squint toward the bench in question.

“I mean, they said he had shoulder surgery, right? He’s wearing a sling.”

“But why would he be in New York?”

“And why would he be hanging with my Lit professor?”

Jake joins them then, flopping down at Derek’s feet, panting and the yellow lab comes over to lay with him. It’s pretty cute.

“I don’t know but I think that’s him,” Nate reiterates.

 

Sid loves dogs. Like, besides hockey, he thinks the next best thing is dogs. But that doesn’t make him feel any less stupid for sitting in a dog park without one. He can smell the peanut butter from PK’s sandwich and wishes he brought his own lunch. It’s a nice day for a picnic.

“You feel any better?” PK asks.

Sid spots a golden retriever puppy which, if he was going to steal a dog, it would be that one. For sure. “I guess.”

“Whatever man, nothing’s better than dogs.”

Sid would be hard-pressed to disagree. He knows he’s been moping around John’s condo, being a bad houseguest. He appreciates PK forcing him to go outside, if only to get away from shitty daytime television, but he thinks it’ll take a lot more than a park full of dogs to make him feel less useless.

The Islanders are on a short road trip to Pennsylvania and he wishes so badly he could be on the ice when they take on the Penguins tomorrow night. The puppy he’s watching trips over itself and he smiles.

“C’mere boy!” a broad-shouldered kid yells, claps a few times to get his dog’s attention.

The puppy rushes to him and he crouches down to pet him, indulging in belly rubs when he rolls over. PK waves obnoxiously at a different guy in a maroon sweatshirt with the hood flipped up, trying in vain to sneak out of the other gate.

“Who’s that?” he asks.

“A kid in my morning class. He wasn’t there today,” PK says, smiling. “He’s a good guy though. Smart.”

Sid likes PK. John did well. “You like teaching?”

“I like teaching good kids. The ones who want to learn. I do not like the little punks who take my classes because they have to and think I’m just going to give them a passing grade because they met the word limit.”

“Are there a lot of those this semester?”

“Nah,” he says around a bite of sandwich. “Everyone’s pretty good this time around. That kid with the dog, he usually sits by this other guy. He’s super into Russian Lit, which is awesome, because no one is ever into Russian Lit. So it’s good.”

Sid wishes he could add to the conversation but English was really not his favorite class in high school. Not by a long shot. He can’t even think of a book that might be written by a Russian. The puppy he’s been watching is now dragging around a stick he found, it’s almost as big as his body. His owner praises him and Sid thinks he’s got a real nice smile.

“We watching dogs or guys now?”

“Huh?” Sid snaps his attention back to PK, who’s done with his sandwich.

“I see you checking out that dude with the puppy and the terrible haircut.”

Sid thought his hair suited him. “He’s got a cute puppy, that’s all.”

“Mhmm.”

“That’s all.” Besides, he’s probably at _least_ six to seven years older than him. If not more. Plus he’s Sidney Crosby. It would never work.  

 

As with most things that make a significant impact in Sidney’s life, he creates a routine of it. Like clockwork, he takes the subway to NYU and walks to the dog park each day. He sits at the same bench and watches the dogs and puppies for about forty-five minutes or until the cutest ones leave. Tuesday he brought a lunch. Wednesday it was colder and looked like rain so he stopped at the coffee shop on the corner. He recognizes some of the dogs by now – the yellow lab that sometimes wears a service vest, the little white dog with black spots, the big fluffy dog with a curly tail that always has a different bandana on.

He’s happiest when the golden retriever puppy is there, though, and today his owner is wearing an Avalanche t-shirt under his jacket, which Sid can forgive. There are many other teams that would have been a deal breaker.

The Pens lost two nights ago and he’s still down about it while simultaneously feeling like he doesn’t even deserve to be upset. He still can’t lift his arm over his head and he hates that too. Dr. Harner had recommended a physician in the city, an old colleague or classmate or something, and he has an appointment with him tomorrow morning. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, irrationally worried that something has gone wrong and it’s not healing properly.

He relaxes the longer he watches the dogs, though.

A little yorkie wonders over and yips at him, so he leans down to scratch at her back with his good arm, appreciating the way she tries to climb his leg. He doesn’t much care for the little dogs, but she’s not so bad.

“Sorry about her,” a well-built guy in a snapback says, scooping her up.

Sid opens his mouth to say it was all fine but he’s already three benches down and counting.

 

Jonny tries to calm down enough to let Betsey do whatever she’s going to do but he just…can’t. What if a bigger dog steps on her, or tries to _eat_ her. What if a _human_ steps on her.

But they’re in a dog park with other people who like dogs who know better than to bring killer dogs to a community dog park, he reminds himself. It’s probably fine. Probably.

“If you get hurt, Lindsey will never forgive me, okay? So like, play with dogs your own size.”

Betsey’s whole back end is wagging and she gives a little bark, straining toward the ground where he places her gently. He watches her bounce over to another little terrier and they sniff each other in greeting. She’s fine.

He breathes.

He doesn’t really notice the guy who sits down at the other end of the bench, too focused on not overreacting now that Betsey’s moved on to a slightly larger dog.

“Which one’s yours?”

Jonny startles, finally glancing to his right. The guy is gorgeous, with his hair tucked behind his ears and a nice smile and a strong neck and a… “Uh, my what?”

“Which dog is yours?” the guy repeats, indicating the whole of the park.

Jonny knows he’s blushing, which is potentially more embarrassing than gesturing toward Betsey. “The little one. With the pink collar. But, uh, she’s not really mine. We have joint custody or whatever and I didn’t pick her out or anything.” He’s word vomiting. This is the worst.

The guy’s face lights up, though. “Hey, she’s pretty cute. I think Knox likes her.” He indicates the medium-sized mutt that has Betsey’s attention at the moment.

“Yours?”

“Yeah, and that chunky one over there digging a hole like the bad dog he is.”

Jonny laughs.

“I’m Brent.”

“Jonny,” he says, shaking his hand.

“Are you a student?” Brent indicates in the direction of NYU.

“No, I just kinda live close by. Thought Betsey might want to get out of the house for a while.”

“Betsey?”

“I had absolutely no say in the matter,” he says in a rush, heat coming back to his cheeks.

Brent doesn’t seem deterred. Or he’s just a super nice guy. Jonny thinks he can hear a Canadian lilt in his voice, maybe he’s just too polite to get up and walk away. “I don’t have much room to talk. That one’s name is Stanley.” He points to the dog that’s now sitting in the hole he dug. “And I had _every_ say in the matter.”

“You a hockey fan or did you just like the name?” Jonny tries not to sound too excited at the prospect of a guy who looks like Brent _also_ liking hockey.

“I got him in 2010, so you tell me.”

Something positively sings in Jonny’s chest. “Okay, wait. Not only do you like hockey enough to name your dog after the Cup, but you’re telling me you’re also a Chicago fan?”

“It’s hard to live in that town and _not_ become a fan.”

“How long were you there?”

“Eh, eight years or so. I thought it was time for a change in scenery.”

“I was there about six before I got transferred. It’s a great city.”

“What do you do that would get you transferred here?”

“Financial Assistant.”

“Swanky.”

If Jonny was smoother, if he had a single suave bone in his body, he’d ask this perfect stranger to dinner, play the fancy restaurant card he always has up his sleeve, already be planning how he would sweep him off his feet. “It’s alright.”

“Handsome _and_ modest. What else you got?”

_A fantastic condo with a big bed._ “Excellent taste in dogs, obviously.”

Brent smiles. “Obviously.”


	3. Three

Sid is unreasonably nervous the day of his appointment. John offered to drive him on his way to morning skate and he can’t keep his hands still as he sits in the passenger seat. The radio’s barely loud enough to hear but he thinks it’s just a talk show. Kind of sounds like NPR. He didn’t think John was the kind of guy who listened to NPR.

He’s got a bit of a headache looming in the distance and he thinks maybe that’s what is putting him on edge.

“You said 2417, right?” John asks, turning into an office park.

Sid unfolds the paper with the doctor’s information on it. “Yeah.”

“It’s gonna be fine, man. You’re like, the pinnacle of Good Patient.”

He exhales and unlatches the door.

“Call PK if you need anything, okay? I told him to keep his phone on.”

“Yeah, thanks. And, um, good luck tonight, if I don’t see you.”

John smiles and when Sid climbs out, he feels a little more like a child being dropped at school than a friend. He really kind of hates it.

Sitting in the waiting room he can’t help but wonder if maybe he should go back to Pittsburgh and suffer alone. Or as alone as he can be with thirty guys and the trainers and medical staff worrying about him constantly. Something in his chest tightens at the thought, of being a distraction to the team.

The quotes and articles about his absence have trickled off recently, reporters have gotten bored of asking the questions and getting the same responses. _Sid’s Sid, he’s doing great. He’s going to get back on the ice as soon as he can._ If he went back, they’d probably all start up again, circling around like vultures for a scoop.

No, it’s better for the team if he stays here. For as long as John will have him, at least.

 

After the scan and a rough test of mobility, he hops up onto the exam table in a room eerily similar to Dr. Harner’s. The poster on the wall across from him has “5 Tips to Avoid Athlete’s Foot”. Gross.

“Alright, Mr. Crosby,” Dr. Asher says, after knocking. “Everything looks on-schedule. It’s clear you’ve been taking very good care of yourself. I think we can stretch the next appointment to three weeks, unless you start to experience any discomfort or swelling near the incision site.” He clicks his pen and slides it into the pocket of his white coat. “Are you off the Percocet or do you need a refill?”

“No. I’m fine, thank you.”

“Then you are free to go. Marjorie can set up your next appointment on your way out.”

Sid dutifully sets a time for three weeks down the line and exits the building. It’s just as cold outside as it was inside and he struggles to turn the collar of his coat up around the strap of the sling. He doesn’t attempt to pull his beanie on one-handed, he’s frustrated enough as it is, which means his ears are cold by the time he gets to the subway station. It’s a long train ride to NYU from Brooklyn, plenty of time to warm back up.

 

He’s late by the time he gets to the dog park but his usual bench is blessedly empty and he settles before attempting to tug on his hat. He hopes the sun breaks through the clouds soon.

He scans the park and notices a few dogs he’s never seen before – a Dalmatian chasing a red ball, a grey schnauzer in a navy blue sweater, a standard poodle with bows tucked in the fur by her floppy ears. The day automatically brightens when he spots the clumsy golden retriever puppy with the leather collar, the one that belongs to the guy with the beefy shoulders and a misguided affinity for the Avalanche.

Though today he’s wearing a faded sweatshirt for the Cole Harbor Bel Ayr Wings that’s a little short in the sleeves. Shit. _Shit_.

He slumps down on the bench, burrowing into the collar of his coat as much as he can, tugs the front of his hat almost to his eyebrows. What are the fucking chances.

His favorite puppy toddles over to another golden retriever and they both race to the guy’s feet because of course he has _two_ golden retrievers. No, make that _three_. He scans the rest of the park, almost expecting a whole flock of goldens to trundle over, like maybe this guy is some kind of golden whisperer. Which would be just Sid’s luck.

The oldest of the three, judging by his white face, lays a big lick on the guy’s cheek and Sid’s heart might melt a little.

 

Nate waves him over once Max lets Orion off his leash.

“Brought the whole family, eh?” he asks, indicating the trio of dogs attempting to lick Nate’s face.

“Yeah, my parents are going on a cruise and didn’t want to leave them in a kennel for the two weeks.”

“Nice.”

“Crosby’s here again.”

Max rolls his eyes. “Sidney Crosby is not in New York City and he’s _definitely_ not here, at this dog park.”

“You can’t tell me that guy over there doesn’t look dead-up like him.”

“His hat’s covering like, half his face. How can you even tell?” Max turns around to watch the running path. Hot-Guy should make his appearance any minute.

“I was thinking about walking over and asking.”

“What? No. That’s weird, dude.”

“No it’s not. Celebrities get approached all the time. And I’m not going to ask for his autograph of anything, I just want to know if it’s him.”

Max literally doesn’t care about anything besides the fact that Hot-Guy is wearing a pair of tight red leggings today. He wants to be crushed by those thighs.

“Are you even listening?” Nate asks.

“No. I’m really not.” Hot-Guy does some stretches near the fence, bending over to touch his toes a few times and Max has to squeeze Nate’s arm to ground himself. He’s not sure if he imagines the way Hot-Guy scans the park until he spots Max.

“Did he just smile at me? Nate? Did he just…”

“Fucking _talk to him_.”

“Okay. I will make you a deal. If that guy…” He points at the Crosby-look-a-like. “Turns out to be the real Crosby, I’ll talk to Hot-Guy.”

“Deal.”

They shake on it. There’s no way that guy is Sidney Crosby, not a chance in hell, which is perfect because Max can’t imagine a scenario where he approaches Hot-Guy and it goes well. Better to keep his distance, no matter how frustrating it might be.

“Not today though,” he says. “I’ve gotta get to class here in a minute.”

 

As usual, a minute turns into five which turns into ten and now Max is running late. Which means that of course Murphy’s Law kicks into gear and Orion bites at the bringsel tied to his hip just as they round the corner to campus.

“Okay, bud. Let’s just get to class and then I’ll check.”

He keeps speed walking and Orion bites at the roller again, tugging a little. “I know. Good boy. But we’re late.”

Orion sits then, looking up at him with the saddest puppy eyes he can pull, and Max gives in, shucking off his backpack to find his meter. He doesn’t feel shaky like the last time Orion was this persistent but the number still tells him he’s fairly low. He sucks on the finger he pricked while he digs out a juice box.

“Better?” he asks Orion.

He looks pretty pleased with himself.

“Alright, now class.”

They slip into the lecture hall nearly ten minutes late and Professor Subban has already started talking about The Great Gatsby. Chris catches his eye and purposefully moves his backpack from the chair next to him. Max takes the invitation.

“What did I miss?” he whispers.

Chris hands over his notebook.

 

“Hey, you’re a Rangers fan right?” Chris asks, once they’re released into the weekend.

“Not really,” Max says, shouldering his backpack. “Why?”

“You like hockey though, yeah?”

“Duh.”

“My roommate and some people he knows through his gym are going out to watch the Rangers/Hawks game tonight, if you wanted to come.”

Max thinks about his paper and his stats homework and the novel he still needs to start reading. “Yeah, I’m in.”

“Cool, I’ll text you the address once we figure out what bar.”

 

Dan and Jonny always end up watching games at the same bar, a little hole-in-the-wall that’s closer to Jonny’s place than it is to Derek’s. Jake is giving him the sad eyes tonight and he almost wishes he could bring him, just stick him under the table or something.

As if he’d say put.

“I’ll be back tonight, okay? I promise.”

Jake lays his head on his front paws and Derek makes his escape.

 

He gets there a respectable time before puck drop and scans the crowd until he spots Dan and Jonny in a booth in the far back corner.

“What if he doesn’t go back in the next two days?” Jonny’s saying when Derek slides in next to Dan.

“Then go there without a dog. _Pretend_ to have a dog,” Dan suggests.

“What are you talking about?” Derek butts in.

“Jon met a guy at a dog park near NYU and didn’t get his number, even though the guy was clearly hitting on him.”

“I didn’t know you liked dudes,” Derek says, stealing a cheese fry from the basket in front of Dan.

“He’s greedy like that,” Dan scoffs, pulling his fries out of Derek’s reach.

“You can totally borrow Jake if you need a dog. He loves that park.”

“He knows I don’t have an actual dog.”

“I dunno what to tell you, man. You should’ve gotten his number the first time around,” Dan says, pounding the end of his beer.

“Wait. Why is there a two day limit on this?”

“Lindsey’ll be back in town on Sunday,” Jonny says, practically pouting. “So Betsey’ll go back with her.”

“You…watch your ex’s dog while she’s away?”

“Yes! Because kennels are questionable and Betsey deserves the best, okay? I’m a sucker for a tiny purse dog. Laugh at me all you want. I’m getting more beer.” Jonny stomps off toward the bar.

Derek steals another fry despite the distance. “Touchy, isn’t he?”

“Apparently this Brent guy has perfect hair,” Dan says, like that explains everything.

He spots Chris towering over the rest of the people in the bar and waves him over. Surprisingly, Nate’s friend from the park is behind him. “Oh my god, you brought your dog!”

“Yeah,” the guy says. “He’s a service dog so he’ll just lay under the table.”

Derek really needs to get Jake trained.

“This is Max,” Chris says, shoving Derek further down the booth. “He’s in my American Lit class.”

“Small world, man. I’m Derek, I don’t think we were properly introduced before.”

“Yeah, you were a little tangled up,” he says, wide smile stretching across his face.

Derek’s stomach flips over, remembering Ryan, who actually gave him his number because he’s not a fucking amateur at hitting on guys.

“Is Jonny not here yet?” Chris asks. “I want to start heckling him.”

“He’s already grouchy, please don’t,” Dan says.

“It’s his fault for being a Hawks fan. He’s fair game.”

Jonny arrives with a pitcher and a stack of glasses. “Aw shit, I don’t have enough.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m not drinking,” Max says, passing the glass to Dan across the table.

“Really? It’s no problem to go back and grab another one.”

“Nah, I’d rather not worry about it. Thanks though.”

Derek doesn’t really know what Max’s service dog is for but he’s not about to pressure the guy to drink. Even if that’s half the point of getting off his couch to watch the game in public. He takes the pitcher once Dan’s done with it.

“So what kind of dog does this Brent guy have,” he asks.

Dan groans.

“He’s got two. They’re not super big, one’s kind of chunky but, uh, they’re both mutts I think. One of them is named Stanley.”

“God it’s so gross,” Dan laments from his corner.

“I approve,” Derek says, wiping the beer foam from his lip. “Only good guys adopt mutts. And obviously he loves hockey, right?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m never going to see him again.”

“Not with that attitude!”

“Please stop egging him on,” Dan complains.

“Why aren’t you going to see him again?” Max asks.

“I met him at a dog park.”

“The one by NYU?”

Jonny nods.

“That place is full of hot guys. This is going to sound so creepy, but there’s one that runs by some mornings and he’s absolutely perfect.”

“You get his number?” Dan asks.

“No way. He’s so far outta my league I can’t even bring myself to talk to him.”

Chris leans into Derek. “This is the same park you met Ryan at?”

“Yup. The place is magical.”

“Damn, you think it works with chicks?”

Dan laughs. “You could probably give it the Old College Try.”

Chris reaches around to shove Dan into the wall.

 

The Rangers win and Jonny knows he’s red in the face from all the beer he downed during the third period when all they needed was _one_ goal to tie it up and force overtime. He sags a little against Dan, who’s directing him toward a taxi.

“Get in, drunky,” he says, nearly tossing Jonny in the backseat. “Don’t come to the gym tomorrow. I don’t want you puking all over the new mats I put in, okay?”

Jonny gives him the finger and tells the cabbie his address.

He’s kind of glad he doesn’t have Brent’s number. He’d definitely text him right now. Might even call him, ask him to come over, embarrass himself even more than he already has.

His head falls back against the seat and he watches the lights of the city dance across the roof of the car.

 

It’s Betsey’s last day on Sunday, he got the text this morning when Lindsey got to the airport in Miami. Of course the sky looks about ten seconds from rain and she wants nothing to do with her leash.

“Please?” he asks for at least the seventeenth time.

Betsey stays put in the blankets on the couch. He thinks about just picking her up and taking her to the park but he’d feel bad. Especially if it did actually rain.

“You’re the worst wingman ever.”

He pulls on his Blackhawks toque and heads to the park alone.

 

The weather is fucking miserable and the weatherman said it was only going to get worse. He should’ve gone yesterday when he was hungover and the sun was out. No one is going to bring their dogs to a park when it’s freezing and cloudy. Jonny spots one person all bundled up on a bench and a few others with their hearty winter dogs – like huskies and a big fluffy white one that looks like a wolf.

Betsey needs a sweater for days like this. He needs to remember to ask Lindsey if she has one.

“Come here often?” a familiar voice says behind him.

Jonny turns to find Brent crouched down and releasing Stanley and Knox. “Hey.”

“Betsey let you take her out in this?”

Fuck, he’s about to sound so pathetic. “Uh, no. She’s at home.”

“Aw, so you just came to see me?”

He knows Brent’s joking but he also didn’t come up with a better excuse on the way over. “Something like that.”

Brent flings a frisbee and Stanley races after it. He doesn’t catch it before it lands on the ground though, doesn’t even jump for it. Knox trots off to the edge of the fence, nose to the ground. Jonny watches Brent push his hair out of his face.

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping you’d be here, too,” Brent confesses.

“What?”

“I mean, you hit on me and then left without giving me your number.”

“I did not hit on you.”

“You definitely did.”

“Okay, but you started it! And besides, you didn’t even ask for my number, how was I supposed to know?”

“I’m asking now.” Stanley comes back, drops the frisbee at Brent’s feet.

“Gimme your phone then,” he huffs, secretly pleased about how everything just worked out.

Brent lays the iPhone in his palm and Jonny hopes his fingers aren’t visibly shaking as he taps his info in. He double-checks that the number is right before handing it back.

“Just _Jon_ ,” he says. “Not even a last name?”

“I haven’t decided if you’re a serial killer yet.”

What he _does_ decide is that he really likes making Brent laugh.


	4. Four

Jake’s doing better. He hasn’t eaten any more of Mats pillows and knows how to sit and _almost_ how to stay. He thinks maybe by the end of the year he’ll get him to roll over or play dead or something fun. He really likes to tear through rawhides. Mats thinks that’s what’s giving him the terrible gas but honestly, it’s the bones or his pillows so everyone just has to suck it up.

Derek’s phone vibrates in his pocket. _Franny and I are heading to the park, would you and Jake be interested in meeting us?_

It’s cute how Ryan texts with proper grammar. “You wanna go to the park?” he asks Jake, who is currently pulling the stuffing out of a hedgehog toy Chris brought him yesterday. His ears perk up.

_Yeah that sounds great!_ he sends back, instantly regretting the exclamation point. But he gets a smiley face in return, so no harm done.

 

The park is pretty busy when they get there and Jake wastes no time running over to Franny and bumping noses. Derek watches Ryan scan the area until he sees him and is totally blindsided by the smile that spreads across the guy’s face.

“Geez, tone that thing down a bit,” he jokes.

Ryan actually bites his lip and looks down at his feet, like some kid who got his hand stuck in the cookie jar. “Sorry.”

“Shut up, you know you’re cute.”

Franny and Jake make their way to the fence, Jake laying down and letting Franny hop around him.

“They’re adorable together,” Ryan says.

“Franny has good taste.”

Ryan scoffs.

“Hey, whatever. Jake’s a great catch! He’s bilingual. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“My roommate suggested I try to teach him tricks in Russian but that went over about as well as could be expected.”

“Why Russian?”

Derek tells the story of the day he met Jake on the street outside of his hostel in Moscow, how the skinny little dog followed him around and always seemed to be there in the morning when he woke up. How he fed him his leftovers and bought bottles of water for him and when it was time to board the plane back to the States, he just couldn’t leave him behind.

“That’s amazing. Like really, really awesome.”

“Don’t get all misty eyed on me, dude.”

“Whatever. I like a good dog story.”

“Aw, you a softy under all that muscle?” he teases, elbowing Ryan in the side.

“Just never make me watch The Fox and the Hound, okay?”

“Um, people who don’t cry at that movie aren’t human.”

They laugh until Franny circles Ryan and he pulls a tennis ball out of his coat pocket. When he throws it, his chest tilts Derek’s way and he catches sight of a familiar red W.

“Nice sweatshirt,” he says, pointing at the front of his hoodie.

“Class of 2011.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Ryan picks up the ball where Franny dropped it and throws again. “Yes seriously.”

“ _I_ was class of 2011,” he says, disbelief evident in his voice. “Were you at the Madison campus?”

“Yes _and_ I suffered through four years of winter classes in Mosse.”

“Oh man, that place was the _worst_.”

They reminisce about college in Wisconsin, which is basically just complaining about having to walk in massive snowdrifts and cooing about their favorite players on the hockey team at the time ( _Uh, Jamie McBain, no question_ – _What about Jake Gardiner!_ – _Not a fucking chance_ ) which leads to talking about the current Rangers’ roster and their game against the Predators tonight and by the time they’re done, both Franny and Jake are laying at their feet looking ready for a nap.

“You know,” Ryan says. “There’s a restaurant nearby that lets dogs just hang out under the tables if you wanted to go somewhere a little warmer.”

Derek tries to ignore the soft feeling that’s blooming in his stomach but he just can’t do it. “I have quite a bit more to say about Anthony Duclair’s chances of keeping his spot in the lineup. Let’s go.”

 

The small café where Ryan takes him has fantastic burgers (he slips his last few bites under the table where Jake has been patiently laying) and Ryan, it turns out, has a jawline Derek really wants to get to know. Also, his hockey knowledge is off the charts.

“I kinda want to see you in action,” Derek says. “I feel like witnessing you watch a game would be a religious experience.”

Ryan might blush just a little. “I’m actually pretty quiet during games.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“My, uh, my office sometimes gets tickets, to the Garden…we could go sometime?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says, beaming.

“So that wasn’t too forward?”

“ _Forward_ would’ve been blowing me in the bathroom.”

Ryan’s definitely blushing now.

 

 

Chris nudges Max as Professor Subban is doling out the reading assignments up through midterms. He tilts the screen of his phone so Max can see it and plays the snapchat story, which starts with a picture of Jake and a French bulldog curled up together under a table with the caption _puppy love is real to puppies_.

“Whose dog is that?”

“Ryan’s.”

The next picture is of the guy Derek got wrapped around at the park, _Ryan_ presumably. He’s looking up at a TV, not paying attention to the picture being taken. It’s a nice shot. “What, are they on a date or something?”

“Looks like it, right?”

Subban dismisses them and Orion gets to his feet, ready to go. “Well good for them, I guess.”

“You could be on a date if you’d ever make a move.”

Max stops zipping his backpack to fix Chris with a glare. “Did Nate talk to you?”

“Mostly Nate talks to Derek who talks to me.”

He’s mildly annoyed at that but it could just be because he’s hungry. “I’ve got a plan, okay?”

He doesn’t. But he’s never going to need once since Nate’s clearly blind and can’t tell Sidney Crosby from a perfectly normal human.

“Oh do you?”

“Yeah. It’s a great plan.”

Chris doesn’t seem convinced. Whatever. They split off at the subway station, Chris going downtown and Max taking the uptown train. He pops his earbuds in and Orion sits calmly between his feet once he boards.

At the next stop, a guy in a tight cream-colored Henley sits across from him. He’s cute when he smiles at Orion and then at Max.

_Cute guy on the train_ he sends Nate, even though he’s working and won’t be able to text back.

They catch each other looking a few more times and Max notices the way the color of his eyes change in a certain light. He likes them best when it’s just the sickly glow of the subway overheads and they’re almost grey. He wonders if the guy knows his eyes change colors, what light he prefers them in.

He leans over to fix his shoe and Max watches the muscles of his back shift under his shirt. He’s taller than Max. It wouldn’t be hard to let him push him around a bit, shove him up against a wall.

The guy stands a few stops before Max would normally get off and he has the wild idea to get up and follow him, to proposition him right there in the subway station.

“What the fuck,” he says under his breath. This isn’t an episode of Queer as Folk.

Apparently he needs to get laid.

 

 He tests his sugar as the bread is toasting for his sandwich and pulls out ham and turkey and the thick-cut deli cheese he splurges on. He spreads mayo on both sides because he’s feeling a little decadent.

He clicks over to NHL Network and settles on the couch. Hot-Guy didn’t run today, which is fine since he’s still got those red leggings etched in his mind. The Rangers are apparently on a two game road trip and the Leafs are still losing. What a surprise.

Orion rattles against the side of his crate as he gets comfortable enough to nap in the other room, away from his constant vigilance of Max and his diabetes. And it’s not like he hasn’t, you know, jerked off in front of him before but there’s something about being alone with Train-Guy’s eyes and Hot-Guy’s legs, really alone, that makes it so easy to get started.

Train-Guy pressing him up against the wall and sucking little marks down his neck, rolling his hips up, giving him a thigh to ride. A thigh that belongs to Hot-Guy, thick and muscular and _strong._ God, he’d be so strong. Strong enough to put Max anywhere he’d want him, maybe drape him over the back of the couch, ass in the air.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

He wouldn’t be slow or particularly thoughtful, he’d open Max just enough to still feel it when he finally gives him his dick. It’s probably a nice fucking dick, too.

Max groans when he wraps a hand around himself, the tip of his cock already wet. It’s so good to take his time, really work for it. He’d be good for Hot-Guy, too, might even beg for it. Fuck, he totally would. He’d try to bite his lips to keep from crying out but Hot-Guy would know, he’d tell him not to. He’d tell him to let him hear it all.

Max kicks his pants all the way off and props his feet on the table, head thrown back on the edge of the couch. Shit, maybe he could get Hot-Guy to pin him down, to hold his shoulders or his wrists until he came all over himself.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , shiiii--.”

 

Jonny grunts as he finishes out the last set of deadlifts, sweat dripping down his nose onto the new mats Dan put in last week. He feels good, added another five kilos to his one-rep max.

His music stutters as he gets a text and he drops the bar to check it.

_I’ve got a reservation for two at Amelie in the Village tonight, you free?_

“Holy shit.” He pulls his headphones off as he rushes toward the front of the gym where Dan is folding towels. “Dinner.”

Dan raises an eyebrow.

“Brent just asked me to dinner. What do I say?”

“You’ve been drooling over this guy since you met him. Say ‘yes’ and put us all out of our misery.”

“Of course I’m going to say ‘yes’! But like, _what should I say_?” He wiggles his phone. “I can’t just say ‘yes’.”

“Where are you going to dinner?”

“Amelie, in the Village?” he questions, the Village really isn’t his scene so he’s never heard of the place.

“Oh hey, that’s super romantic. And also super French. Wow him with some of that bilingualism you’ve got going on.”

“Is bilingualism even a word?”

“Yes. Text him back in French. Do it.”

Jonny thinks that’s kind of lame but does it anyway.

_Of course you speak French_ , Brent texts back. _I’ll see you at 7:30, mon cher._

“Oh man, what did he say!? Your face is all blotchy!”

“Nothing,” Jonny says, pulling his phone out of Dan’s view.

 

He’s ready a full hour before he needs to be at the restaurant even though he took an exceptionally long time picking a shirt (the polo that really shows off the extra six pounds of muscle he put on this year) and then matching it to a pair of shoes. He brushes his teeth and styles his hair, washes it, and styles it again but the clock still only reads 6:32. He gives in, grabbing his fancy peacoat and scarf before heading to his car.

Amelie is easy enough to get to, which means he’s _still_ early. Shit, he doesn’t want to look this eager. He circles the block once before finding a nice parking spot on the street. Absently, he wonders what kind of car Brent drives – if it’s flashy or sleek or if he’s secretly a suburban dad. It’s probably something shiny and black with leather interior, gorgeous like him.

That’s when he catches sight of Brent walking toward the door in a thick coat and hat, his nose a little red from the wind. Of course he took the subway. Or maybe he lives close enough to walk. Jonny suddenly feels self-conscious for driving.

He gives Brent about three minutes before following him inside. The restaurant is warm and drenched in soft light. There’re quite a few people at the long bar, deep in conversation around glasses of wine, the chatter filling up the space with noise. Jonny smiles when he sees Brent along the wall at a little two-top table.

“Hey,” he says, pulling out the empty chair.

“Good to know we’re both the kind of people who show up early.”

“It’s not _that_ early.”

“I may have circled the block once.”

Jonny scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. Me too.”

They order a bottle of wine and an appetizer and talk about work and Chicago and everything they miss about it. They talk about Duncan Keith and the frankly ridiculous season he’s having. Brent tells him about the time he saw him out at the grocery store and got his autograph.

Their entrees come and Jonny’s starting to feel warm around the edges, his second glass of wine already gone. Brent keeps tucking his hair behind his ears and it’s distracting. Jonny catches him staring at his mouth a couple times, might lick a bit of sauce off his lip just to watch his jaw clench. 

“Do you, uh, live close by?” Jonny asks once their plates are cleared and all they have left is the end of their bottle.

“Yeah, not too far.”

“You want dessert?”

Brent finishes his last few sips of wine. “Nothing on the menu that excites me.”

He hums and swirls the last of his own, watching the way the red sticks to the side of the glass. “That’s too bad. I was kind of looking forward to something a little sweet before bed.”

They hold each other’s gaze, letting the tension pull taut across the table between them, letting it mount and build and stretch to its limits before it finally breaks.

 

Brent slams the door shut and then slams Jonny back against it, already working his coat and scarf and tight polo right off over his head. Jonny’s trying to get Brent’s sweater higher than his chest but he won’t stop pushing Jonny’s hips back against the door long enough to let him.

They kiss like it’s the first sip of water they’ve had in days, maybe _weeks_ , desperate to pull each other closer. Jonny gets his fingers up in Brent’s hair and listens to him sigh against the skin of his jaw.

“Brent, c’mon,” he whispers. Fuck, he met this guy at a dog park and they’re gonna…right here in this fucking doorway. “Need you, c’mon.”

Brent finally pulls his sweater over his head and Jonny can’t fucking believe the muscles he’s been hiding. “Goddamn, you’re gorgeous.”

“Says the guy with an eight-pack.”

“Fuck the eight-pack, look at your fucking arms.” He runs light fingers over the bulge of Brent’s biceps, down over his elbows and the meat of his forearm. “Bet you could ruin me with these arms,” he says, reverently.

“I’d certainly try my best.”

Thank god the bedroom’s not too far down the hall.


	5. Five

It’s been almost two months since the surgery and the full freeze of winter has finally engulfed New York City. It’s well into the Christmas season and all the lamp posts and store fronts are decked out in white lights and shimmery garland. PK drags Sid to Herald Square while the Islanders are on another road trip just to look at the Macy’s windows.

He thinks it’s the kind of thing he should have waited and taken John to instead.

“Come on, let’s go get warm,” PK says, steering him toward a Starbucks.

They sit and sip on coffee and split some kind of streusel muffin that has too many carbs in it for Sid’s liking. He’s been able to get back in the gym a little, working his core and legs and some light therapy on his shoulder. It’s been good. He feels a little more like himself when he leaves sweaty and exhausted.

He notices a guy standing in line that keeps squinting their way, obviously trying to decide if Sid’s actually who he looks like.

“Hey, let’s get out of here,” he says. “Someone’s about to blow my cover.”

 

He still goes to the dog park sometimes, usually after the gym. It helps him unwind, helps the frustration of not having the body he wants melt away just a little. He’ll get better, he knows. He’ll get back to where he was but it takes time. At least another two months, the doctor says.

It’s snowing today, big chunky flakes that stick to everything. It’s the kind of snow Sid likes. The kind that looks how it does in the movies, a little romantic in how it makes all the lights glow a little brighter.

He hasn’t seen his favorite puppy in a while, or the service dog, or the wild blonde dog and the little Frenchie. The ridiculous part of his brain feels abandoned even though he never talked to their owners, even though he doesn’t know the dogs’ names. There’s a shepherd there now, running around and biting at the snowflakes, getting his fur covered in the stuff. But he’s not really doing the trick.

Sid startles when the puppy of his dreams, much bigger now than the first time he saw him, hops up on the bench and rubs his face against his coat, tail wagging.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, automatically reaching out to rub at his ears, delight swelling in his chest at being _chosen_.

“His name’s Duke.”

Sid looks over to find his owner on the other end of the bench with two cups of coffee from the shop on the corner. “Duke,” he repeats, continuing to run his fingers through the gold fur around his collar.

“I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea,” the guy says. “But I saw you sitting here, so I bought you coffee. Because it’s legit snowing outside and you’re still out here watching other people’s dogs.”

Duke flops down on his lap and Sid can feel the heat of him through his jeans. “It’s not that bad. I like the snow.” He tries to ignore the fact that this guy has clearly noticed him before.

“I mean, me too, but I’m not about to sit out here in a blizzard.”

“It’s not a blizzard.” Sid can’t believe he’s arguing with someone who probably grew up surrounded by his face and his name and all of his accolades. Someone who probably knows his life’s story without having ever met him, who maybe shot pucks at his mom’s dryer because Sidney Crosby did it. “I should go.”

“No! Hey, don’t. I’m not…I’m not like a weird fan or anything. I swear. I just, sometimes you look lonely. When I see you over here watching. And I know with the injury it probably sucks not being on the ice, so I get it, but it’s almost Christmas and I thought…I dunno, I thought maybe if you had someone to talk to…”

The guy’s cheeks are a little red and Sid wonders if it’s from the cold or something else. He can’t help but think he looks kind of pretty this way. Plus, he’s buried his hands in Duke’s fur and a part of him feels like this is the happiest he’s been since the surgery. Since maybe even before the surgery.  “Thanks.”

“Don’t think I won’t tackle you if you try to steal my dog, though. I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Sid smiles and honks out a laugh. “Can’t say I didn’t think about it once or twice.”

“He’d really hate living in Pittsburgh.”

“Bet he’d look great in a Pens jersey though.”

“Only if it’s got 87 on the back, otherwise, no deal,” he counters. “And take this, will you? Before it goes cold.”

Sid takes the cup of coffee and can smell that there’s cinnamon in it. “What is it?”

“House specialty. The owner likes me. It’s good, just drink it.”

He takes a careful sip and is immediately convinced that this is what Christmas tastes like. He’s never been one for fancy coffees but he could get used to this.

“I can see it on your face, you love it.”

“It’s not bad.”

Duke eventually gets down off his lap to go chase a fat squirrel up a tree. Sid misses his warmth immediately.

“You know, uh, I have to work tomorrow but maybe the next day we could do this inside?” the guy asks. “It’s supposed to get really cold so I dunno if any dogs’ll be out. I’ll bring Duke, though. So you can get your fix.”

Logically, the invitation is sound and there’s something about the guy that makes Sid not feel so on edge, something in his smile that makes it seem genuine. “Yeah, sure,” he says, going with his gut before all the voices of doubt can get a word in.

“Alright. Then, I’ll see you around.”

He goes off to collect Duke and Sid realizes, “Hey! You told me your dog’s name but not yours,” he shouts.

“It’s Nate!”

Nate, Sid thinks, is going to get him in trouble.

 

Max gets the text while he’s six chapters deep into his statistics review. He’s been looking at numbers and little letters for _hours_ at this point and feels no closer to fully grasping the concepts than he did when he started. Which is not ideal since his final is tomorrow.

_Sidney Crosby is real. Your move._

_pics or it didn’t happen_

_Dude please, as if I wouldn’t know Crosby when I saw him. He’s legit._

_I don’t have time for this im about to fail my stats final_

He puts his phone on silent and tosses it beyond arm’s reach just as Orion hops up on the bed with his bringsel in his mouth.

Fuck the Walgreens on the corner for not having sugar-free Red Bull when he needed it the most.  

 

He feels dead after the exam, mentally and physically exhausted. He’s mostly following Orion, hoping he’s heading in the direction of the subway station or possibly a bar, while trying to count up the amount of points he definitely missed versus the ones he thinks he might have gotten right. It’s not going to be a good score either way.

He might actually have his eyes closed when someone runs into him, full-on shoulder to shoulder check into the boards. Fuck that hurt.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry,” the guy says. He’s wearing red and green mittens which is super cute. “I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?”

Max is fine and he says as much, lifting his head to give a smile to this guy and, “Holy shit, it’s you.”

“You…recognize me?” Hot-Guy asks, eyes wide. Dark, beautiful eyes.

“From the dog park. You run by there all the fucking time with your thighs and your chest and…” Max flaps his hand at the guy’s body, currently covered in a thick coat with fur around the hood. “Yes, I recognize you.” He’s way too tired to feel embarrassed for confessing all that.

“Oh.” Hot-Guy looks down at Orion, sitting patiently like the good dog he is, and back up at Max. “Oh! Uh, yeah. Pretty sure I’ve seen you there, too. Does he sometimes wear a service vest?”

“Yeah. He should be wearing one right now but I washed it and didn’t have time to put in on before my final.”

“He’s cute.”

“Of course he is.” The cold is quickly sobering Max to the fact that he’s talking to Hot-Guy in gross three-day-sweats and an old Maple Leafs toque. He didn’t even put on real shoes, he’s wearing fucking house slippers. “I mean, yeah. Thanks. I should go.”

“Sure, yeah. See you around.”

_ran into Hot-Guy after my final kill me_

_Pics or it didn’t happen_ , Nate texts back.

_ur an asshole_

_But at least I’m your favorite asshole._

 

Max doesn’t wake up until eleven the next day, a full thirteen hours of blissful, holiday break sleep. The warm fuzzy feeling only lasts until he remembers how poorly he did on his final and the absolutely embarrassing conversation he had with Hot-Guy on his way home.

“Why did you let me do that?” he asks Orion, who isn’t paying attention at all. “You know we can never go back there now, right? We’re going to have to find a new dog park.”

Orion’s ears perk up at that.

“It’s your fault.”

He barks and wiggles closer to where Max is still buried under his blankets.

“And now I’ll never get to feel his thighs. I hope you’re happy.”

Orion looks pretty happy, if his tail is any indication. He barks again and sticks his cold, wet nose in Max’s ear.

“Uhg, fine. But give me like, at least another hour before we go.”

 

The sun is out when they leave the apartment, not that it makes it any warmer, but it might make Max feel a little less miserable. People are out in force with shopping bags and neatly wrapped presents clogging up the subway and the sidewalks.

The dog park is equally busy and Max spots Derek along the fence hand-in-hand with Ryan. He really hopes he finds a guy one day who looks at him the way they look at each other. It’s so gross but he _wants_ it.

Nate’s there too with Duke by his feet. “I thought you weren’t showing your face here ever again?”

“The dog wins, man.” Orion greets Duke and then runs off toward another little cluster of dogs.

“He’s been sitting over there since I got here,” Nate says, nodding his head across the park. “I’m not saying he’s been waiting for you, but I’m also saying he might be waiting for you.”

“There’s no way he’s fucking waiting for me.” It’s way past their regular time; Max is usually in class by now. He mentally cringes at thinking they have a ‘regular time’. He doesn’t even know the guy.

“You better tell me how it goes,” Nate says, clapping him on the back.

“It’s not…wait, where are _you_ going?”

“I’ve got a coffee date with Sidney Crosby.”

“You do not. You’re being catfished.”

“Maybe I’ll get you an autograph.”

Max watches Nate and Duke leave the park and cross the street, heading into the little coffee shop on the corner.

“Hey.”

Max whips around to face Hot-Guy, bundled in a ridiculous amount of layers and the same adorable mittens as last night.

“Sorry. This is so creepy of me. I just…I didn’t know how else to find you? And after last night I kind of really wanted to find you again.”

“Why?” He’s gone over their conversation at least ten times since waking up this morning and absolutely no part of it was anything worth coming back for.

“You, uh…you said you’ve seen me running. Which, I do. But I wasn’t exactly honest with you.”

“What?”

“I started running by here when training camp started and during the first few weeks, I kept seeing you and your dog. So I kept running, even though I really hated running that early. And then I made the team and I kept running, cause why mess with a good thing, right? But I realized that the more I ran, the more I looked for you whenever I passed the park. The more I kind of hoped you looked for me, too. And I might’ve worn the least amount of clothes I could get away with sometimes.” He shrugs and looks down at his feet and Max wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him so badly. “I would’ve come into the park sooner but I’m allergic and I try not to get their fur all over me so, uh…yeah.”

Max is speechless. He’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open, eyes wide. He probably looks like a fish – a gaping, gross fish.

“You’re super weirded out, aren’t you? I’m sorry, I’ll g--.”

“Did you run today?” Jesus, what a stupid fucking question to ask but he had said ‘training camp’ and Max doesn’t know how to ask about something that’s probably impossible.

“No. I’m, uh, I’m out with a lower body injury. Couple weeks or so.”

He remembers the white noise from the TV this morning, NHL Network talking about the Rangers and their star rookie being taken hard into the boards last night. “You are _not_ Anthony Duclair. No way.”

“Most of my friends just call me Duke.”

And he’s so much hotter up close, now that Max has the wherewithal to actually look. “You’re really fucking hot.”

He smiles and Max wants to climb him like a tree.

 

Sid tries to pretend like he’s more excited to see Duke than he is to see Nate but he’s lying to himself. He’s lying to _everyone_ once Nate takes off his jacket and scarf and sits down at the little table in the corner with a grin.

“You look like you thought I wasn’t going to show up,” Nate says.

“No, no, I’m just…I’m happy.”

“Yeah?”

Sid didn’t think the kid’s face could light up any brighter, but he was wrong. “Definitely.”

“You know they tell you to never meet your heroes, but you’re not so bad.”

Sidney holds back every self-deprecating comment that floods to his mouth. Maybe if he can just think of Nate as a fan, someone who hero-worships him, he won’t feel so much like he wants to kiss him. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”

“Shut up, don’t use those canned lines on me. You’ve met my dog. We’re closer than that.”

They order coffee and Nate gets some kind of macchiato with mounds of whipped cream and sprinkles on top. He gets some on the corner of his mouth and Sid doesn’t even hesitate to lean over and wipe it away.

Nate’s tongue licks at the spot he just touched and Sid feels like he’s been shocked. This is so bad. When Sid thought about coming to New York, he made peace with the possibility of signing autographs or taking pictures with the few people who would somehow find him in the massive city. He made peace with the fact that his location probably wouldn’t be a secret for very long.

What he did not bargain for was being found by the person sitting across from him.

And whether he’s in Pittsburgh or Cole Harbor or New York City, he doesn’t let himself do this kind of stuff. He just can’t.

“I should go.” He stands and rushes for the door, nearly knocking into an old woman in a flowery headscarf.

He’s too frazzled to place himself and can’t decide which way to walk to get to the subway station before Duke and Nate tumble out of the shop behind him. “Hey, whoa. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Did I do something?”

“It’s not you,” he says, stuffing his hands deep into his coat pockets. “It’s just that you have the perfect dog and you like hockey and haven’t asked me for an autograph. Which is all fine except you also have a nice smile and stupid hair and shoulders that are totally uncalled for and it just sucks! Because I’m…I’m Sidney Crosby and I don’t get to have any of that!”

He can feel the sheer amount of eyes that just swiveled to where he and Nate are standing. “Shit. I’ve gotta go. I just…I’m sorry.”

He turns to cross the street and head toward the dog park, pulling on his hat as low as it’ll go.


	6. Six

His alarm goes off at 4:30 like it does every weekday morning and he turns over, groaning, to silence it. It’s cold outside of the thick down comforter he’s under and he wants no part in it. It’s dark, the sun still hours away from rising, and the sky looks frigid.

“I can let myself out, y’know. If you wanna go,” Brent mumbles into the pillow next to Jonny’s head.

He rolls back into the space under Brent’s arm where it’s warmest and nuzzles up to his chin to plant a kiss there. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Brent tightens his arm around his waist, fingertips dipping into the elastic of his briefs. “We could do some cardio.”

Jonny presses into the touch, already a little buzzed at the suggestion. “You gonna make me do all the work?”

He hums and stretches out on his back. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Hop on.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

Brent tugs on his thigh until he straddles his hips, grinds down against him. Jonny slides his hands up against Brent’s chest, arches back as Brent palms at his ass. He’s so easy for the smug, sleepy look on his face, the way he pushes up against Jonny’s dirty grind, fingers wrapped around his hip.

“Mmm yeah, babe. Just like that.”

“Fuck, you’re so much better than the gym,” he groans.

Brent pulls him down for a kiss and then slips both hands into the back of his briefs, tugging him closer, and Jonny’s dick is so ready for this.

 

Two and a half hours later, when his second alarm goes off and they’re both sweaty and sated and a little bit drowsy, Jonny has four missed text messages from Dan:

_The gym misses u_

_Your gonna get love fat_

_Pls come visit me_

_I hope Brent still likes you wo your abs fatty_

“Dan says ‘hi’.”

Brent laughs, stretches out and scratches his chest. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He likes you just fine,” he says, halfway to the shower.

Brent’s not far behind, sliding in under the spray with him. “We could always double date with him an--.”

“No. No, definitely not. The last time I went on a double date with him, it was an unmitigated disaster.”

“You were probably like, ten,” he says, squirting some shampoo into his hand.

“Fifteen.”

“You’re at least nineteen now, it should be fine.”

Jonny socks him in shoulder.

“Okay, okay. Twenty-one. I did get you drunk at that one bar a few weeks ago.” He leans over Jonny’s back, bracketing him against the cold tile. “You’re so sweet with a few glasses of wine in you.”

God, if he hadn’t already come twice he’d be putty in his hands. “I’m going to be late for work,” he groans.

“Yeah, yeah.” Brent gives him a good-game butt tap and shuts off the water. “We still on for Thursday?”

“Absolutely.”

 

He feels like he’s walking on air on his way to work, even through the dirty snow shoveled up on the sidewalks and the harsh wind that picks up once he turns the corner toward his building. For _weeks_ now, he’s been happier than he thought he could ever be again.

Brent’s just so… “Ngh,” he sighs once he’s reached the elevator, remembering the way his thighs burned this morning, Brent’s thick fingers digging into his hip…

He’s sure his face is flushed by the time he gets to his floor and walks down the hall to his office. He catches Sharpy zeroing in on him from across the room.

“So dog park magic,” he asks, following Jonny in. “Still going strong?”

“I mean, it’s not actual magic but…yeah,” he says. “It’s great.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Toes.”

Jonny thinks he might actually be sincere for once in his whole life.

“Looking a little hot in the face though, you have a quickie before work? So shameless.”

And the moment is gone. “For someone who won’t go near another dick with a ten foot pole, you’re oddly interested in my sex life, Sharpy.”

“Just looking out for you,” he says, sitting down. “How many points you get last week?”

Jonny smiles. “Enough to put me in first place. That’s all you need to know.” He pulls up his fantasy league to gloat a little more. He’s got Pekke Rinne in net this week and he’s hoping for a couple shutouts to seal the deal going into the holidays.

“I take it back, your boyfriend is terrible for you.”

“Not my boyfriend.”

“Sex friend.”

“Friend with excellent benefits.”

“Whatever you say, Tow-ez,” he says, getting back up. “Thai for lunch?”

“Only if you’re paying.”

 

Derek’s pretty sure that his favorite thing about Ryan is the amount of new things he’s willing to try. The dude is up for anything and it’s amazing. He is _especially_ happy to be his restaurant guinea pig.

“I’ve heard really good things about this place,” Ryan says as they round the corner, straight into the wind.

“I believe you. Unless it’s like, a literal hole in the wall.”

The Thai restaurant they stop in front of is far from a hole.

“You didn’t tell me to dress up.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says, tugging him inside. “It only had two dollar signs on urbanspoon. It can’t be that fancy.”

There’s faint Christmas music trickling down from the ceiling and the spices cooking in the kitchen fill the whole dining room. “It smells fantastic, I will give you that.”

The host seats them at a table with a pressed white tablecloth and linen napkins folded into fairly intricate origami. Derek resists the urge to take a picture for Instagram.

“Okay, so before we order or anything, I have something for you.”

Derek’s mouth goes dry as Ryan pulls a thin black box out of his coat and lays it on the table in front of him. He totally hasn’t gotten him anything for Christmas yet.

“Jesus don’t look like that. It’s not a _ring._ ”

 _Of course it’s not a ring_ , he thinks. _The box isn’t the right shape._ He unties the little red ribbon and lifts the lid to reveal a pair of tickets.

“I know it’s kind of late notice but I was able to talk my coworker into letting me have them. It’s for the game right after Christmas.”

Derek sees the section number and the row and almost swallows his tongue. These are _killer_ seats. He leans over the table to plant a fairly inappropriate kiss on Ryan’s mouth.

“I mean,” he says, cheeks flushed, as Derek settles back in his seat. “We could always do Thai for dinner if you wanted to…”

Derek puts the lid back on the box and pushes back from the table. “I’ll race you to a cab,” he taunts.

 

Derek’s shitty apartment is closer than Ryan’s nearly suburban townhome and they’re already kissing by the time he gets the door unlocked. He knows Mats is sitting at the crappy little table they rarely eat at but he still pushes Ryan’s coat off as he bites at his lower lip, leaving it crumpled right next to the couch.

They manage not to trip over anything large on their way to the bedroom and Derek happily lays Ryan out on his freshly washed duvet. The unmistakable sound of Jake whining is the only thing that gives him pause.

“In a minute,” he says, shutting the door firmly.

“How thin are your walls?” Ryan asks once Derek starts to work on the zipper of his jeans.

“Super thin. But don’t worry about performance evaluations.” He pulls the pants down and off Ryan’s hips and sinks to his knees. “I know you put on a good show.”

 

On Thursday, Brent takes Jonny to a small bar near the Village where he knows a band that’s playing a show, some guys he used to work with or something, he didn’t really say. Jonny’s gotten comfortable with the places he takes him, drinking more craft beer and wine and complaining about it less and less.

He knows better than to put on slacks or anything resembling a polo and instead chooses the only plaid shirt he owns and a soft grey toque. He still feels like his jeans aren’t quite tight enough to pass.

Brent leads him into the bar with a warm hand on his lower back and they settle at a little table not too far from the stage. Jonny waits while he goes to get a pitcher of something, hanging his coat on the back of his chair. He wonders if everyone wearing thick-rimmed black glasses actually needs them to see or if it’s all in the name of fashion.

“Here we go,” Brent says, setting down two frosty glasses.

“Thanks.”

They drink in silence, watching the band set up and tune their guitars. It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled, it’s just _nice_. Jonny’s happy to sit back and let Brent slide his arm along the back of his chair, lean into him a little.

His phone buzzes and he slumps down to dig it out of his pocket. _Lindsey calling._ “Uh, hey. I’ve gotta take this. I’ll be right back.”

He beelines back outside, realizing rather quickly that he didn’t grab his coat. “Hello?”

“Jonny, oh my god, Jonny.” He can tell she’s practically in tears and his stomach twists.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I was w-walking Betsey and she…she saw a squirrel or s-something and tried to run after it and it all happened to so fast and I just…it’s all my fault.”

“Where are you? Is she okay?” He tries to keep the panic out of his voice but his heart is jackhammering in his chest.

“The vet said it happened with little dogs sometimes, if they wear a collar and…and tug real hard. Jonny, her trachea might’ve collapsed…she couldn’t _breathe_.”

He kind of falls into the side of the bar, knees weak. “But she’s okay, right?”

Lindsey sniffles into the phone. “They took some x-rays and gave her an anti-inflammatory and now we’re just waiting to see i-if she’ll need surgery.

“Everything’s going to be fine. Are you still at the vet?”

“Yeah. They’ve still got her in one of the rooms somewhere. I dunno.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay?”

He hangs up and rushes back into the bar. The band is on stage now, introducing themselves to a warm applause.

“Brent,” he says, shoving himself back into his coat. “I’m so sorry. But I’ve gotta go. That was Lindsey, uh, Betsey’s in the hospital. Or the vet hospital. Or whatever. I’ve gotta go.”

“Hey, whoa. Calm down a second.”

“There’s no _time_.”

“Let me drive you.”

“I can take a taxi. You should stay…enjoy the band.”

Brent stands, slipping into his coat as well. “You’re more important.”

Jonny has the overwhelming urge to kiss him but there’s absolutely _no time_. “Okay.”

 

He drops him off at the front door and Jonny rushes inside. Lindsey’s there in the waiting room, bent over her lap with her head in her hands.

“Hey.”

She startles. “Hey, Jon.”

“Any news?”

“The meds are working. They don’t think she’ll need surgery. I…I overreacted. You didn’t need to come all this way. She’s going to be okay.”

“No, I wanted to,” he assures her, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. 

Brent comes in then, having parked the car in the mostly deserted lot. He rubs a warm hand on Jonny’s back. “Are you gonna be here a while?” he asks. “I can go get some coffee.”

“He said she should be able to leave within the hour,” Lindsey says.

Jonny would love some coffee, would love to give Lindsey something warm to calm her down a little bit, but he wants Brent in the seat next to him more. He clears his throat and gestures for him to sit. “Um, this is Brent,” he clumsily introduces.

“You’re wearing your date coat,” she says slowly, like her brain is catching up with what she sees. “Oh god, were you in the middle of a _date_?!”

“It’s fine,” Jonny says.

“From the look on his face when he got off the phone, he didn’t want to be anywhere but here,” Brent assures. “And I’m perfectly happy to play second-fiddle to Betsey.”

Lindsey’s smile reaches all the way to her eyes and Jonny, once again, feels the urge to kiss him. “Would you believe it if I told you he used to hate her? He’s come a long way.”

“You should’ve seen the death glare he gave the French bulldog who looked at her the wrong way when we first met.”

Jonny had thought about how he could introduce Brent to Lindsey, when the appropriate time would be. He definitely imagined it’d be further down the line, possibly after they had decided on what to call each other (‘friend with excellent benefits’ is kind of a mouthful and not nearly as accurate a description as it was two months ago). But now was good. Now was fine.

“Only you would pick-up at a dog park, Jon,” Lindsey says.

“He started it. I’m totally innocent here.”

“Yeah right,” they chorus.


	7. Seven

Sid likes Cole Harbor because it never really changes. It’s a constant in his life, a place that settles him faster than anything else in the entire world. He hadn’t told his parents he was coming but they made up the guest room for him anyway, didn’t question why he was here instead of his own house. He appreciated that.

Taylor wasn’t far behind him, arriving right in the middle of a storm three days later with bright laughter and a bunch of shiny packages. She has snow in her hair when he hugs her and he hadn’t realized how much he missed being together for the holidays, being settled somewhere without having a return flight already booked.

“Yeah, I missed you too, Sid,” she says into his shoulder.

His mom bustles around the kitchen and pulls the roast out of the oven so they can all sit down at the table together, eating until they’re full and sleepy and want nothing more than to nap on the big couch in the den.

“Dishes, you two,” his mom says. “You don’t want Santa to come into a dirty house, do you?”

“Mommm,” Taylor whines. “We’re both way old enough to know Santa isn’t coming.”

His dad gasps. “What?! Who told you that?”

The room devolves into a fit of giggles but eventually, Sid takes up a towel and Taylor fills the sink with soapy water.

“You seem weird,” she says, handing over a cleaned casserole dish.

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

Sid takes the next plate she offers. “Why do you think I’m being weird?”

“Well for starters, you ran off to New York City – which was weird – and now you look like someone kicked your dog.”

“No I don’t!”

Taylor fixes him with a glare.

“I’m fine.”

She passes him a handful of silverware. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well you should.”

“Is it your shoulder? Because you know you’re going to be even better once it heals an--.”

“It’s not my shoulder,” he snaps and he knows she’s got him. “It’s, uh…I met someone. In New York.”

Taylor gasps and squeals and drops the plate she was washing back in the sink to tug him around the corner and into the hall bathroom. “What’s he like?!”

Sid wrinkles his nose, opens his mouth to correct the gender of her question. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.

“Oh shut up, as if I didn’t know.”

That's something they’ll come back to. “Uh, well. He’s nice?”

“What does he look like, do you have a picture?”

Sid tilts away from her grabby hands. “No. No I don’t. I don’t even have his phone number.”

“You didn’t stalk him, did you?” she asks, tone suddenly very serious.

“Oh shut up, no I didn’t _stalk_ him. I met him at a dog park.”

He can practically see the exclamation points bouncing around in her head. “He has a _dog_ , oh my god. Tell me more.”

Sid doesn’t point out that he’s _trying_ to and she keeps interrupting him and instead goes through the story as best he can, leaving out the part where he freaked out and ran all the way home in shame.

“He sounds great, why are you sad?”

He sighs. “I mean, come on…I can’t date a guy while I’m still playing.”

“Sure you can.”

He can’t. He decided before he was even drafted that he was going to wait until he was done with hockey to find someone to be with. “I don’t even really know him. We just had coffee. And possibly stared at each other from across the park.”

“A spark is a spark. They don’t come around as often as you think.”

 Sometimes he really wishes his sister was still in diapers so she couldn’t spout this ridiculous romantic crap at him. He needs someone logical, someone to talk him into going the other way.

“You should go back to New York and find him! He could be ‘The One’, Sid.”

“No! He’s like your age, Taylor, he’s way too young and he’s from Cole Harbor and he’s a Colorado fan! It’s…no. He’s not ‘The One’. This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“Bullshit.”

Part of Sid knows Taylor’s probably right, that connections like this don’t come around many times but the other part of him, the logical part, is winning out right now.

“I hate to use such a heavy handed metaphor, but you deserve your happy ending. And if this guy is it? You can’t just let him go.”

He wants to argue that he’s never even _had_ him in the first place, that they’re still practically strangers, that there are so many reasons why going back to New York is stupid. But two days ago he texted John who asked PK for his student’s email, the one with the yellow lab that Nate always hung out with, and, in a fit of beer-induced moping the next day, he'd sent an email to Max Domi hoping it didn’t get stuck in his spam folder or something.

“Oh god. He could post it to the internet. He could…it could be everywhere.”

“Sid?”

He felt sick, like he might throw up or faint or have a heart attack. His phone vibrated and a sharp zing of fear sliced through his spine. “Oh god this is so bad.”

“Whoa,” she said, settling him onto the toilet. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

“I need to you check my email,” he says. “I can’t look.”

Taylor takes his phone from him and scrolls until she finds the newest message. He watches her eyes fly across the screen and notices the smallest curve of her mouth. He holds his breath.

“Looks like you’re going back to New York.”

 

The airport is disgustingly busy the day after Christmas and Sid can’t get out of the terminal fast enough. He wants to run, wants to throw a shoulder check and shove people out of his way. He wants to fight the little old lady who flags down the taxi he’s got his eye on.

“No,” he says to the guy about his size who tries to take the next one. He could totally take him.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

“NYU, please.”

“Traffic might be a bit of a mess with the game at the Garden.”

Fuck the Rangers. “Do your best,” he grits out.

 

Max doesn’t startle when someone knocks at his door. He doesn’t bother checking who it is either, just opens it wide with a smirk already in place. “You’re late.”

Anthony bullies his way inside. “I had to stay after morning skate,” he says, breathing a little heavy. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “But we’ve still got time.”

“Too bad I’m not letting you on my bed all sweaty,” he says, already stripping out of his sweatshirt.

Anthony invades his space, shoving him right up against the wall. “That’s fine with me.”

“Yeah,” he sighs once he gets one of his thick thighs between his legs. “Fuck, Anth--, Du--…okay, no wait. Wait.”

Anthony pulls back, stops sucking a mark into the jut of his collarbone.

“I can’t call you Duke. I really can’t. My buddy’s dog is named Duke and it’s just…it’s really weird in this position.” He indicates the very little space between their bodies at the moment.

Anthony smirks and leans into him. “You can call me daddy, if you want.”

“Christ, that’s awful but I think I kinda like it,” he says, tipping his head back so he can bite at his neck. His mouth is so unfair.

He lifts his arms to have his shirt pulled off and pushes at Anthony to do the same, tugging at his black under armor with a New York Rangers’ logo on it.  “Please tell me you’re not planning to wear this to the game.”

“No,” he says, cupping the back of Max’s head before slamming him into the wall hard enough to make him gasp for air. “So don’t worry about getting it messy.”

His knees go a little weak at being man-handled, feels a little light-headed at having Anthony so close, close enough to kiss. He wishes he could wrap his legs around him and ride him into the sunset. “Fuck.”

Anthony flips him so his palms slap against the wall, grinds into him so he can feel just how hard he is. “You gonna hold yourself up for me? Make all those pretty noises I like?"

“Yeah daddy, I'll be good," he says, aiming for snarky and missing by a mile.

 

After a pair of well-earned orgasms, they end up on the floor, breathing heavy and skin sticky with sweat. Max slides off his dick to lay flat on his back next to him, tries to catch his breath. God, he wears him out every time.

“It’s not fair that I had to wait twenty-one years to have sex like this,” he complains.

“And you wonder why I trek all the way to Brooklyn for your ass.”

Max’s phone vibrates and then chimes and it’s almost within arm’s reach on the coffee table, almost close enough to get his fingers on. Instead, he waits until Anthony hands it to him, along with a glass of juice, on his way to the bathroom.

“You just gonna lay there?” he asks.

“Lemme check this and I’ll be right in." Anthony's been here enough times to know where the towels are and how to work the shower without supervision.

He opens his email and clicks on the newest message. He recognizes the sender by now but he still can’t believe what’s happening. Nate is going to owe him ten thousand favors. And possibly an autograph.

 

Derek meets Ryan on the corner of 33rd and 7th with just enough time to get into the arena and to their seats before the anthem. Frankly, Derek’s pretty impressed with the amount of Rangers’ gear Ryan’s currently wearing – head-to-toe blue, white, and red topped off with a massive smile, that kind that means Derek’s about to get spoiled.

“Wait, is your jersey signed?” he asks, tugging at the shoulder of it.

“Um, yeah. I got most of the guys from last year’s team.”

“ _Most_ of the…oh my god.”

Ryan laughs. “Who’s your favorite player?”

“Lundqvist, for sure.”

He points out an elegant signature near the bottom of the logo. “That’s him.”

“Fuck you and your signatures.”

Ryan takes his hand, leading him down the stairs of their section until they’re almost to the glass. “These okay?” he asks, as if Derek has ever sat this close in his entire life.

“Fuck you and your signatures and these seats.” He feels like a fucking celebrity this close to the ice.

So close he can actually see the details of Hank’s mask as he skates to the net. He might be dying a little. The first time the Rangers score, they’re both on their feet, hands in the air and Ryan leans over to kiss him, just a soft peck, but Derek’s absolutely certain he’s ruined watching hockey any other way from now on.

They cheer with the crowd and hum along with the goal song and three little words Derek’s never said to another person in his entire life try to bubble up out of his mouth. Yeah, he needs to remember to thank Jake for all this.

 “You wanna eat at Nate’s diner after this?”

“Only if it comes with an invitation up to your room after.”

“Look at you being all forward,” he jokes, leaning into the arm Ryan has wrapped around his shoulders.

 

The diner is warm inside and he can hear something sizzling on the flattop grill behind the counter. It smells like breakfast. The bells on the door jingle when it clicks closed and Nate, spatula in hand, looks up to greet his newest patron.

Sid watches his eyes widen.

“Dutchy!” he calls through the swinging kitchen door. “I need you to get out here for a minute!”

He hands his spatula to a guy with dark hair before stripping out of his dirty apron and stomping over to where Sid is still standing, just inside the door.

“Nate, I--.”

Nate grabs him by the wrist and marches him through the diner and out the back door marked ‘Not an Exit’. It empties into a small alley with a dumpster. There’s snow everywhere except where the garbage truck has driven.

“What are you doing here,” Nate hisses. “I told Max to tell you not to come! This is crazy!”

Sid’s heart sinks. “He…he emailed me back and said to come. To meet you at the park. But once I had landed he told me you couldn’t make it, that you had to work. So I…came here.”

“But _why_?” he snaps. “No, okay, that sounded bad. But I just don’t get it. Because you’re…you and I’m just some guy who didn’t go to college and works in an all-night diner and can barely pay rent.”

“I don’t care. I mean you have the perfect dog and you have a nice smile and stupid hair I constantly want to mess up and you love hockey but I’ve also never felt so _normal_ around someone. I don’t really get _normal_ in my line of work, y’know? And I told myself years ago that I wouldn’t do this while I was still playing but I don’t want to miss you. If you’re my one spark, I don’t want to miss you.”

He realizes it’s snowing when he sees the first of it getting stuck in Nate’s hair and gathering on his shoulders.

“You’re basically my little sister’s age, which makes me feel a little weird about how much I really want to kiss you. But I really do. Want to kiss you.”

Nate’s the one who closes the gap between them, who cups Sidney’s face in both of his hands and kisses him. Sid’s never felt so electric in his life.


	8. Epilogue

_Two months, three weeks, and five days later..._

 

Nate wakes up as the sun is rising, hours before his alarm is set to go off. He hasn’t been this excited about a particular day since Christmas when he was eight and he knew there were a pair of new ice skates under the tree from Santa.

He’d gotten the text from Sid at the beginning of the week – _they’re letting me go on the road trip, think I might play_ – and couldn’t think about anything but being in the same city again, about being close enough to talk face-to-face, to touch, to ki—it was _better_ than skates.

Morning traffic starts to crescendo outside his window and he watches the colors of the sun splinter across his ceiling. There’s still a chill over the city, the last wiry fingers of winter holding strong, and Nate burrows deeper under his covers, tries to will himself to go back to sleep for a few more minutes.

He’s quick to snap a hand out to shut off his alarm when it finally sounds, bouncing out of bed and into the shower. His phone’s blinking when he gets out, fog steaming up the mirror in the bathroom. _Got the okay :)_

Nate throws his hands up and jumps around in his towel, dripping water all over the floor and smile stretched wide across his face. His fingers shake when he fires off a text to the group chat he was forced into by Max “because of dog park love magic” and then another to Sid – _Gonna score me a goal then?_

_Only if you wear the jersey._

Ever the romantic, Sid had shipped one of his game-worn jerseys to Nate for Valentine’s Day and included a smaller one for Duke “to wear on game days, for luck”. They’d skyped later on: Sid showing off the range of motion in his shoulder and Nate wearing nothing but the jersey. It was the best Valentine’s Day he’s ever had.

He’s not sure he won’t get heckled for wearing the jersey in Madison Square Garden but it’s for Sid. He’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll do pretty much anything for him. _Nah, I was thinking of the Sakic one I’ve got._ But not before giving him a hard time about it.

_They’re not even playing tonight!_

_Of course I’ll wear your jersey, babe_ , he types, laughing. _Dirty mustard yellow looks good on me._

_Oh fuck off._

The game is a seven o’clock start. He’s got a lot of daylight to kill.

 

Derek insisted that they all meet on the on the corner of 33rd and 7th because of pregame ritual reasons, so Nate waits for them there, watching the number of people in Rangers attire increase at it gets closer to puck drop. Dan, Jonny, and his boyfriend Brent all arrive in a cluster.

“Is that a fucking Blackhawks hat?” he asks, pointing at the monstrosity on Jonny’s head.

“It’s cold! I had to wear something!”

“And you really can’t talk,” Dan says, pointing to the Pens jersey Nate’s got on under his nondescript coat.

“At least they’re one of the two teams playing in this building.”

Derek and Ryan show up soon after in matching Rangers’ jerseys, hand-in-hand. Derek’s roommate Chris is a few steps behind.

“I _knew_ you’d be wearing it!” Derek shouts. “You owe me a blowjob.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “As if that’s such a hardship.”

“Uhg, why do you think everyone wants to know that shit?” Chris asks, covering his ears. “It’s bad enough I have to _hear_ it.”

“I’m trying to get him to move closer,” Derek says. “That trek out to the suburbs is _not_ fun.”

Ryan meets Nate’s eyes across the little circle they’ve formed. He knows Ryan’s been looking for a place in the City, somewhere that might be suited for two instead of just one. An investment in their relationship. Nate’s pretty sure they’ll be the first to get engaged. He would be surprised if Ryan hasn’t found a ring already.

“Where the hell is Max?” Dan asks. “I don’t wanna miss all the pregame shit.”

“He’s already inside,” Nate says. “Wanted to watch warmups.”

“Oh right, his boy toy is playing tonight.”

“I think that’s the other way around,” Derek scoffs.

“Uhg, my _ears_ ,” Chris complains.

They heckle each other until they’re through security and up to their seats, the couples pairing off to sit together with Nate and Dan as a buffer between. He carefully removes his jacket and braces himself for the first person to say something about what he’s wearing. He gets distracted by the Penguins taking the ice though, watches the line of players come down the tunnel until he spots Sid, second from the end.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile that brightly,” Max says, shuffling his way to the other end of the row to sit next to Ryan. “It’s a good look on you, man. Unlike that sweater.”

Once he moves past, Nate can see the _Duclair_ spread between his shoulders. He idly wonders if he got his for Valentine’s Day too.

The lights dim and the anthem is sung and then Sid is taking the opening faceoff, winning it back to the point. The first of many little successes of the night.

The Rangers score first and Nate accepts the ribbing from everyone except Jonny.

“You’re not even a Rangers fan! Sit the hell down,” he jokes, halfway through his first very expensive beer.

The lead doesn’t last long – Sid snipes a rocket of a shot to the top left corner and Lundqvist doesn’t have a chance in hell of stopping it. Nate cheers with the rest of the Pittsburgh fans as Sid gets crushed in hugs by his teammates. He watches him skate down the bench to tap the row of gloves and circle back to the official who pulled the puck out of the net. He keeps watching, smiling, as Sid takes it and skates back over to toss it to one of the guys in a polo behind the bench before lining up to take the face-off at center ice.

 

Nate doesn’t see the between-periods interview they do with Sid, doesn’t hear the question about the puck, doesn’t hear the answer he gives. He’ll watch it later that night with Sid already asleep, curled into his side.

_“Uh, yeah. Tonight’s kind of special for me, first game back from a big injury and uh, I’ve got some special people in the stands who haven’t seen me play before so it’s just…it’s a good night. One I want to remember.”_


End file.
